A Matter of Time, Vol 2
by starlitSKYx
Summary: After forcibly revealing details about the future to Voldemort, Scorpius is trying to repair the damage—while being trained as the Dark Lord's new apprentice. Time-Travel/AU. Mirrors DH. Star Wars parallel.
1. Prophecy

**Summary:** After forcibly revealing details about the future to Voldemort, Scorpius is trying to repair the damage—while being trained as the Dark Lord's new apprentice. Time-Travel/AU. Mirrors DH.

**A/N:** Rated T for violence, torture, character death, alcohol use, and mild language. **Rating may change due to violence.**

This is written as a direct sequel to _A Matter of Time_, but it can stand on its own. If you intend to read both, I recommend reading the first story first. Paste this in your browser to go straight there: /s/7171349/1/A_Matter_of_Time

If you have seen the Star Wars films, you may imagine this as the months following _Revenge of the Sith_, in which Darth Sidious trains Vader in the Dark Side (with some obvious differences, of course; this is _not_ a crossover, though it is _extremely_ inspired by Star Wars).

British English used throughout.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

**PROPHECY**

There were two beds in the room, a peculiarity in Malfoy Manor. The walls were painted grey, and Slytherin green curtains hung covering the two large windows. A newspaper was laid out carelessly on one of the beds; I had tossed it there out of frustration.

I stood beside the bed, robed in black, and stared down at the floor, thinking. It was not the headline news, but rather a small notice about Hogwarts Headmaster Severus Snape's so-called resignation that irked me. It was irritating to think that everything—_everything_ was my fault, and now, I needed to find a way to fix it.

A knock came at the door. I reached for my wand automatically—the only person in the manor that I trusted was the one who shared his room, and Draco did not knock.

The intruder slowly pushed open the door; a silver hand closed around the edge, and a small man peered inside. He lingered on the threshold, his watery eyes examining me, as if he were trying to recognise an old acquaintance.

"I'm Scorpius, not Draco, what do you want?" I said, rolling my eyes, annoyed that the coward was too afraid of me to ask my identity.

"The Dark Lord requests your presence," said Wormtail, in his squeaky voice, "in the parlour."

Then again, if history was any indication, Wormtail was probably just acting afraid.

I strode past him onto the second floor landing, locking the door with magic. I stowed my wand beneath my robes, and descended the stairs with purpose—this was what I wanted—to see him. I hesitated for the space of a second before continuing into the parlour.

Most of the room's furniture was set near the walls, creating a space in the centre where there was only a single high-backed chair beside the handsome mantelpiece, and a square table a few feet away. A pensieve was set on the table, but I did not have time yet to wonder about its purpose.

I sank to my knees and said through gritted teeth, "You wanted to see me, my Lord?"

Lord Voldemort turned slowly around to face me. His face glowed in the dim, flickering light from the fireplace; it was snake-like and white, with slits for nostrils—it was _not_ a humourous sight—it was frightening. He held his wand loosely between long, thin fingers, and walked closer, until he stood directly over me.

I looked straight ahead, my eyes narrowed in defiance.

"Something to say, Scorpius?" asked Voldemort, in a cold, high-pitched voice that dared me to speak my mind.

Recklessly, I voiced the cause of my annoyance, "You can't leave Carrow in charge of Hogwarts! She'll ruin the whole school. Don't you know what's been going on?"

"Enough," said Voldemort.

That was his warning for me to shut up immediately, but I knew he was going to punish me soon anyway.

"No!" I shouted. "You don't get it. She's not crushing the resistance. She'll just inspire more!"

Voldemort pulled me up by the collar suddenly, and pushed me against wall, jamming his yew wand under my chin. He gave me a second to beg him not to do it, but he was going to anyway, so I said nothing.

I screamed as he cursed me—it was like hot knives stabbing every inch of my skin—I felt trapped between the wall and his wand.

It ended after a short moment; I was left gasping, and then Voldemort spoke again, "You did not tell me that Snape was a traitor."

"I swear, I didn't know," I whispered.

Voldemort pushed my chin up, forcing me to make eye contact—I knew what he was going to do, and then a swirl of memories flashed before me. I tried to fight, but Voldemort did not relent. I let him pick out the thoughts he needed—he already knew, anyway—and then he threw me to the floor.

"Liar," Voldemort hissed as I scrambled to my knees and looked up at him. "Why didn't you tell me, Scorpius?" He was still watching me with his murderous red eyes.

"You never asked," I said, my gaze fixed on the tip of the wand that I was certain would curse me again. If torture was inevitable, I thought, I might as well earn it.

"But you told him to go into hiding. You warned him that I would soon discover his betrayal, didn't you?"

My lips parted, but I was afraid to speak. I could not deny the accusation.

"It does not matter," said Voldemort. "Severus Snape has been killed."

_No_. I was stunned. I had wondered about the notice in the paper—I had thought that surely, if Voldemort had not found him, his treachery would have been headline news—but I could not allow myself to think that Snape would have got himself caught so quickly.

"Against my orders," Voldemort continued. "Why do you think I would order my servants to capture him alive?"

He was expecting me to answer. I tried to think, then I remembered what happened when his Death Eaters thought they had captured Draco—that was the answer. "To be sure that you kill the right person. You think he might have faked his death?" There was a hopeful inflection in my tone.

Voldemort reached into his robes and pulled out a thin glass vial filled with silvery smoke—a memory. "I would not want to risk underestimating a man who has somehow managed to deceive me for so long. But you know him well. Would you like to see how it happened? Perhaps we can make sense of it together."

His wand was no longer pointed at me, and I was no longer afraid of the Cruciatus Curse. My punishment was decided. He was going to force me to watch Severus die.

"Take it." He handed me the vial. "We will watch it later. There are other matters we must attend to."

I could have broken the glass. I could have smashed it when he wasn't looking, and the memory would be lost—I would not have to see it. He knew I could do that, but he still gave it to me. I wondered why, then I realised that there was no way I was going to let anything happen to that memory. He was showing his trust in me, and it was not misplaced.

"Show me your arm."

I knew what he wanted to see. I raised my left forearm and allowed him to push back the sleeve. He loved to see his Mark on my arm; it was a sign that he had won, and that he now owned me. He touched the tip of his wand to it; the skull and snake turned black, and I cringed from the burning sensation.

"Rise," Voldemort said.

I took a moment to recover from the pain that still pulsed beneath my skin, then I stood and waited for further instruction.

He led me into the drawing room, and my eyes widened at the scene. The room, like the parlour, was illuminated only by a fire in the grate, and the long dining table was set up at one end, beneath the crystal chandelier. Directly above the centre of the table, an unconscious woman floated upside-down, as though bound and hung by an invisible rope. She probably had less than an hour left to live.

Voldemort took his seat at the head of the table, and gestured for me to join him on his immediate right. I wondered if there was a rule written somewhere stating that the Dark Lord's right-hand man must always be a traitor.

The Death Eaters began to arrive within seconds. They all took their usual seats; there were no changes in rank that night. The woman rotated slowly. The others averted their eyes, but I watched her because—despite my horror—I was curious. Her hair hung in a matted mess, and thick spectacles magnified her eyelids. I did not recognise her.

Draco sat beside his parents, and our eyes met for a moment. I tried to communicate that I did not know what the meeting was about any more than he did. Bellatrix Lestrange glared at me from her place halfway down the table. Most of the Death Eaters hated me, and the few that didn't at least regarded me with distrust. Voldemort knew, of course—he treated me special in public specifically so that they would never trust me, and I would have no chance at turning his followers against him.

He had won. He owned me. I would have been a fool to believe otherwise.

The meeting began. I listened to every word as Voldemort addressed the room, and the Death Eaters who worked at the Ministry gave their reports—Yaxley, as usual, made no attempt to hide his yearning for approval. It was of little importance to me. I wanted to know what would happen at Hogwarts once the Easter holidays were over, but he was completely ignoring my concerns.

It went on for maybe a half-hour, and then, Voldemort's gaze travelled down the table, and I tensed upon realising who he was about to address.

"Do you recognise our guest, Draco?" He looked up to indicate the unconscious woman.

All of the Death Eaters were now watching the revolving body. Draco nodded, looking terrified. My fingers shook on my lap.

"Who is it? Tell us, Draco," said Voldemort.

"Pr—professor Trelawney," Draco muttered, averting his eyes from the woman and glancing only for a split-second at Voldemort's face.

"Yes…" said Voldemort, and he addressed the room again, "For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Sybill Trelawney, who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Trelawney was also the Seer who, eighteen years ago, made a rather interesting prophecy."

Voldemort pointed his wand at the woman and gave it a flick—her eyes opened, but they were unseeing, and then she started to speak in a harsh, monotone voice, "_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…_"

Trelawney fell silent, and there were murmurs of comprehension down the table. I wondered why he had not allowed her to recite the _entire_ prophecy.

"Either I must kill Harry Potter, or he must kill me, and since _I_ cannot be killed…" He paused for effect. "Unfortunately, the effort to extract the prophecy from her memory has rendered Professor Trelawney unfit for teaching…" I squeezed my eyes shut; I knew what he was going to do. "_Avada Kedavra_!"

Green light flooded the room, and the body fell, dead, with a _crash_ onto the table. Voldemort ended the meeting, reminding everyone that Harry Potter must be captured unharmed, and then he said as an afterthought—though there was no doubt he wanted everyone to hear— "Stay behind, Scorpius."

He stood, and walked over to the gilded mirror that hung above the mantel. The Death Eaters filed out; Wormtail disposed of Trelawney's body; Draco glanced back at me before following his parents, and within minutes, I was again alone with Voldemort.

"You know the full prophecy?" Voldemort asked, still gazing up at the mirror.

"Yes, my Lord," I said.

_…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…_ It was then that I understood that Trelawney's death had been pointless. I knew the prophecy. He could have asked me, and I would have told him.

"What is this 'power the Dark Lord knows not'?" Voldemort asked quietly. There was a hint of doubt in his tone.

"Love," I answered with a smirk. "It just means love, my Lord. Harry Potter doesn't stand a chance."

"He is still seen as a symbol of the rebellion," Voldemort said. "That Potter continues to live is enough to inspire hope in my… imperfection. His death at my hand would prove my superiority and tear any resistance to my reign to pieces. Yet, it would be foolish to destroy a part of my own soul when there are only three left…"

His last sentence was a mere whisper, and he glared at me. Evidently, I still had not been forgiven for killing his snake.

This Voldemort was not going to underestimate the power of love, I knew because while he forced Harry to hate me, and sowed confusion in my mind toward the Order of the Phoenix, he never tried to turn me against Draco. It was love that kept us fighting through each day, even though we had already lost.

I needed to know his plans involving Harry—I needed to be absolutely sure. "You're not going to kill him, my Lord?" I asked.

Voldemort's answer was a simple and final, "No."

A horrifying realisation swept over me. If we were ever going to destroy Voldemort, _I_ would have to kill Harry Potter.


	2. Spinner's End

"_What draws people to be friends is that they see the same truth. They share it._"_  
><em>—_C.S. Lewis_

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

**CHAPTER TWO**

**SPINNER'S END**

Draco sat across from me, in a corner of his—well, _our_—bedroom, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. I scooped sugar in mine, and took a relaxing sip. There was an open Quidditch magazine near the edge of the round table.

"The Cannons actually won a match—can you believe that?" I said. "Only by ten points though."

"Weasley must be ecstatic," Draco commented.

Afternoon tea was the one hour every day when we pretended that our lives were normal. Draco had insisted on the arrangement a week after I had taken the Dark Mark.

We had to numb ourselves to everything that was happening. I was Voldemort's favourite plaything. I screamed, and sometimes begged when he tortured me, and he loved every second of it. I did it _because_ he loved it.

Draco kept me sane, and I kept him alive. We were closer than brothers.

"Anything about the World Cup?" He swirled his tea, while I flipped through the magazine.

"It's in Canada this year," I told him. "Somewhere in British Columbia. Wonder if we can go."

"It'd be nice," Draco said.

It was hard to believe that anything as normal as Quidditch still existed. I watched innocent people get sentenced to death, I'd seen Voldemort kill a few times already, and his Ministry was hunting down my friends, and there was little I could do to stop any of it, because I had to play the part of a loyal servant. The Death Eaters knew that I was defiant, and some of them were aware of the fact that I was not Lucius Malfoy's son, but if they found out that I was a traitor, then Voldemort would kill my family.

I set down the magazine, and Draco looked at me with concern in his eyes. I felt distracted, because I needed to see the memory—I needed to know what had happened to Severus—but then Draco said…

"Do you want to play chess?"

_Thank you_, I thought, and I answered, "Yes."

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

The glass vial sat beside the Sneakoscope on the writing desk until late evening, when I dressed in the black robes that I was required to wear in Voldemort's presence and slipped it into a pocket.

"What time was our meeting, Scorpius?" he said the moment I entered the parlour. His back was to me; he was staring at the pensieve on the table.

"Ten o'clock, Master."

"What time is it now?"

I quickly checked the watch on my right wrist (there was a reason most Death Eaters had pocket watches; it was uncomfortable keeping anything on the left). "Four minutes after." My voice was barely above a whisper.

In actuality, I was _nine_ minutes late, because the ideal time to arrive for a ten o'clock meeting was five minute before. Even being _almost_ late was considered disrespectful.

"Come here," Voldemort said.

I held my breath as I walked closer, and his horrible eyes fastened upon me. I bowed my head, muttering, "I apologise for my lateness, Master." I called him 'Master' because it was his preferred address, and I was trying not to earn further punishment.

"The memory," he said as he held out a large white hand. I gave him the vial, my fingers shaking. "You do not want to see it?"

I was _afraid_ to see it. Voldemort knew how watching it would make me feel.

"Do I have a choice, my Lord?" I asked after a moment.

His mouth curved into something that resembled a smile; I resisted the urge to shudder. "No," he said, and then he uncorked the vial and emptied the contents into the stone basin.

The silvery substance swirled as he pushed the pensieve in front of me. My head bent forward; I was pulled without warning into a whirlpool of cold smoke, and then I landed onto a cobbled street bordered by rows of dilapidated brick houses. A sign indicated that the name of the street was Spinner's End.

Voldemort followed behind me. I wished he would have left me alone, but I would not dare ask; he loved to watch me suffer.

Rain fell, forming large puddles in the cracks along the pavement. Four men in long black cloaks, hooded and masked, walked briskly to the house at the very end of the street; two had already drawn their wands.

My feet moved forward on their own, following the Death Eaters, and I was compelled into the house as one of them tapped the lock with his wand and the door creaked open.

Snape had been waiting for them. I barely had time to take in the sitting room, with its worn-out furniture and walls lined with books, before it was dismantled by stray curses. I winced as a book flew right through me, then, amids the sparks and bangs and flying pages there was a flash of bright green, and one of the Death Eaters fell, dead.

More chaos—it was impossible to keep track—blood splattered on the floor, then someone shouted, '_Don't kill him!_' An entire shelf exploded, revealing a narrow staircase behind it; there was a blinding flash, and then—

He was dead. My throat felt constricted, and my eyes glazed over as I stared in shock at the expression on his face. It was definitely Severus.

A tight grip closed around my arm and I was pulled up out of the memory; my fingers grasped the edge of the table; my knuckles were white. The scene replayed itself in my mind—it could not have been more than five minutes—I tried to find a loose thread, anything that proved it wasn't real, but it _was_.

"What do you think?"

My head snapped up at the sound of the question; I had forgotten that I was not alone. There was a look of satisfaction in his eyes—apparently, my response told him that the punishment had been effective.

_Master your emotions_, I told myself. _Think logically. What is missing?_ I knew. There _was_ a loose thread. He had given it to me himself. "How did you find out that he was a traitor? If _I_ didn't tell you…"

Voldemort slipped the vial back into his robes, and he pulled out something just as thin, but longer—a wand. It was not _his_, however; it was— "The Elder Wand."

"It will not work for me," Voldemort said. "It fails to live up to its legend. Why? If Severus Snape killed Dumbledore on my orders, then it was _I_ who defeated him, and if not… I killed Avery, and still, this wand is outperformed by the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago."

Avery. Another pointless death because he did not think to ask me first. I could have told him that killing Avery would solve nothing. "So what is the answer, then, my Lord?" I asked, every syllable indicating that I already knew. "What conclusion did you come to?"

His eyes bore into mine, and I knew he was not going to answer; he was still waiting for me to pass judgement on the memory. "So you got the wand," I said, trying not imagine exactly _how_ he had got it, "but it won't work." Snape would have opened the Hogwarts gate for him; surely he would have known what Voldemort was doing, and it must have taken Voldemort a few days to realise that the wand had no extraordinary power. "What happened next?"

"He did not answer my call. I tracked his location, and the rest you have seen." He walked a few paces away from me, toward the fireplace, and gripped the back of the chair. I was starting to get a headache.

"It was him, my Lord," I whispered. "I don't see how it couldn't be. Unless… Either the memory is fake, which I doubt, or it was Polyjuice Potion and a really, _really_ good Imperius Curse."

I could not believe what I had seen; that was all that kept me calm. Everything I knew about Severus told me that he would not have been so stupid.

"The memory has not been tampered with," said Voldemort. "An Imperius Curse would likely have been broken."

"How?"

"I will show you."

I turned my head to look at him just as he slipped the Elder Wand back into his robes and pulled out his own, and then I backed against the wall, knowing that his practical lessons almost always involved pain. "No," I protested.

"_Imperio_!"

My mind went blank; it was like floating, dreaming… _Stand still_, I heard._ Do not move. Not one inch._ I stood like a statue, just barely aware of Voldemort watching me, then—

He raised his wand again and something hit, but for a second all I did was close my eyes and clench my fists. The instructions in my head continued to come in increasing difficulty. I managed to pull out my wand, but I could not cast any spells—the pain was too great—I fell onto my knees and screamed, "STOP IT!"

I was sprawled on the rug, shaking. Every part of my body ached. My sleeve was ruffled; I could see that it was already past ten-thirty. I closed my eyes.

He called a house-elf, and a moment later I was lifted to my feet like a marionette; he tilted my head back, and poured cherry-flavoured liquid from a goblet down my throat. I swallowed reflexively, and the lingering aches healed. Despite everything, he was still taking care of me.

"Pain breaks the curse," Voldemort said. "And it is already difficult to maintain if the victim is ordered to perform tasks beyond their natural capabilities. Thus, I think we can rule out an Imperius."

"You could have just told me that," I muttered, swaying against the wall.

"Next time there is a traitor in my ranks—" Voldemort pushed my chin up, squeezing tightly, and gazed into my eyes with such intensity that I wanted nothing more than to look away "—you will inform me at once. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Good. You may go."

He released me, but I did not move. "Wh—what are you going to do about Hogwarts?" I asked, despite knowing that it was little use arguing with him, because I felt responsible. If Severus was really dead—and even if he wasn't—he would have expected me to take his place, to ensure that the students would be safe. "Snape was looking out for the students—he's probably the only reason none of them have died. If you let the Carrows have free reign…"

"Do you think I am a fool, Scorpius?"

I shook my head, not trusting myself to even think an honest answer.

"Then what do you think an intelligent ruler would do about the situation at Hogwarts?"

He sat down, and twisted his wand between his long fingers. I bit my lip. He wanted me to guess his plan, and that was never an easy task. I deliberated for a few seconds, my eyes closed, before deciding to take the question literally, and answered, "I would put McGonagall in charge."

"Minerva McGonagall was confirmed as a former member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a loyal follower of Albus Dumbledore," said Voldemort.

"Exactly—the students would trust her, and she would keep the school running in good order. You can control Hogwarts from the outside. Make it so that the board of governors has to approve all staffing decisions; have a set curriculum for classes like Muggle Studies and Dark Arts. McGonagall will want to protect the students above all else; she'll abide by the law to keep her position."

"She would have supreme authority over all punishments administered to students," Voldemort countered, "and you seem to be forgetting that we are trying to keep the country in a perpetual state of fear, at least until the resistance is destroyed."

My heart was beating so loudly that I could hear it over the crackling of the fire behind him. He had won, again. "Someone else then," I tried. "A sensible Death Eater who wouldn't torture kids for every minor infraction. Please."

I remembered the first meeting he'd forced me to attend, when Voldemort had ordered me to take the seat on his right, and placed Snape two chairs down, Severus had given me a look that seemed to say, '_It's your turn now. Don't mess this up._'

"I will consider it," said Voldemort. "You are dismissed."

I bowed, and backed out of the room.

It was only when I had safely reached my bed that I allowed the full impact of what had happened to hit me. I buried my face in the pillows and started to strip off my robes and throw them to the floor as though they were contaminated. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I gasped and started to sob for the first since I was a child.

Someone pulled me away from the pillows; I gave no resistance, and instead leaned my forehead against his shoulder. "It's Snape, isn't it?" Draco said in a strangled whisper.

I pulled back, and for a second I stared at the dark spot on his grey t-shirt where the material had absorbed my tears. His hands shook as they held me. "He's dead," I croaked. "He's really dead. The Dark Lord… he didn't even need my opinion—he just wanted me to see…"

"You're sure?"

"The mentor always dies," I said, "so the hero can go on alone." For a while already, I had been suspecting that maybe we were just fictional characters in some deranged author's story. Even my inner monologue was starting to sound suspiciously like narrative.

There was still doubt in my mind, however, about Snape. He could easily have escaped, I was sure, because he knew those Death Eaters had been coming—unless they had put an Anti-Apparition Spell on the whole area—but even then, he might have found a way.

Draco pulled me closer and rubbed my lower back. I could see the other bed over his shoulder; a square mirror was left atop the coverings, reflecting the high ceiling. The curtains were parted, the half-moon just barely visible in the sky. I wondered if I was supposed to feel a sudden desire for revenge.


	3. Augustus Rookwood

"_I always secretly looked forward to nothing going as planned. That way, I wasn't limited by my imagination. That way, anything can, and always did, happen._"_  
><em>―_Crimethinc, _Evasion

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

**CHAPTER THREE**

**AUGUSTUS ROOKWOOD**

Rain again. It had been raining all morning, just like at Spinner's End. And it was a Saturday, too. Saturday night was combat training, which was never fun, but I was trying not to think about that. The window pane was cold against my cheek. There was an open book on my lap, and a quill between my fingers.

I sat on the carpet in the library, writing halfway down the page, Sectumsempra_: sword-like wand movement; draws blood every time._ Snape had invented that one. These were spells I had never used, but I kept note of them because I was trying to find a way to beat Voldemort at his own game.

I bit my lip and continued on the next line, Ossus frendo_: bone-shattering hex._ I winced and darted my eyes toward the window for a second. I _did_ feel angry, about everything. But I was still blaming myself.

The rain was getting heavier. It batted against the glass like a steady drumbeat. I dipped my quill in a bottle of forest green ink. Perago_: stops the heart; used by healers; intention must be to end the victim's suffering._ Without conscious thought, I underlined the last four words. As I set down the quill, my gaze found the curse I had written at the top of the list; I compared the two.

"I killed Nagini with a Blasting Curse," I said. Draco looked up over his sketchbook. "So a Horcrux cannot live inside a dead body."

His pencil stopped moving, but Draco's face was blank. He couldn't so much as acknowledge that he understood what I was saying. We had long since given up on trying to circumvent the Tongue-Tying Curse that Voldemort had placed on him.

"Well, in theory, one could probably make a Horcrux out of a corpse, and it would work the same as any inanimate object, but if the Horcrux is created with a living being, the two souls become entwined, so killing the body would eject them both."

The four words I had underlined seemed to jump out at me, _end the victim's suffering_. _Perago_ was not a curse; it would not work in cold blood. In another time, Harry had given himself up after he had learned of the Horcrux in his scar. With Snape gone, I was the only one who could tell him, but would Harry believe me? And even if he did…

"There's another thing I've been wondering about. I think the Dark Lord's body is immortal."

"His body?" Draco said.

"Yes. We already know his soul is immortal as long as he's got at least one Horcrux, but even if we do destroy them all, I don't think he's going to die of old age."

Draco opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"As far as I can tell, he doesn't need to eat or sleep." In truth, I did not want to imagine that he _did_, because it was easier for me to plot about destroying an unnatural creature than to consider killing a human. "I could slit his throat, or puncture both his lungs, and he'd probably recover."

"No," said Draco. "He can't be completely invulnerable. That's ridiculous."

"He's not. What I mean is, I think there's only one way to kill him." I flipped my notebook around to show him and pointed to the first spell on the list.

Avada Kedavra, it said. _The Killing Curse; attacks the soul directly, forcing it to leave the body; requires strong intent._ I dipped my quill again, and then underlined the words, _attacks the soul_.

"But it's only a theory, isn't it? You're not sure? I mean… just because you've never _seen_ him eat or sleep, it doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't need to. He certainly _breathes_…"

I was caught between a rock and a hard place, and Draco was not helping. If the Killing Curse was the only way to off him, I was unsure if I could do it—and if it wasn't, then I didn't want to kill a human. I stared at the water streaming down the library window, and I started to think about something else that I could never discuss with _anyone_. I was starting to wonder if maybe Voldemort did have some regrets, that maybe some small part of him envied me, because he never punished me for being human.

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

There was only so much to say about Quidditch before I started to wonder why I actually liked the sport to begin with. It was Sunday afternoon, and I had just realised the absurdity of the Golden Snitch.

"Yes, it made sense centuries ago when broomsticks were slow enough that it wasn't unusual for a match to go on for days, and the average goals on either side were at least fifteen, but now… the entire game is really a match between the two Seekers. Ninety percent of the time, whoever catches the Snitch completely nullifies everything that was done by all the other players."

A small smirk formed across Draco's face, and he paused his sketching. "It's possible that a lot of people realise that, but considering all the backlash that happens with even a _minor_ rule change, no one is brave enough to suggest it. Not that _I'm_ complaining."

"You should be," I said. "If the Snitch was only worth _fifty_ points, Slytherin probably would not have been thoroughly flattened without you."

Draco glanced over at the clock atop the small mantelpiece. "I'm going to take that as a compliment," he replied. "And… time's up. What do you do all those nights you're locked up with him?"

"Private lessons. He wouldn't like me to tell you."

"_Lessons_? If he knows you're trying to kill him, why would he teach you?"

I snapped my fingers, and with a two-second delay, the tray holding our teacups vanished.

"Maybe he enjoys my company," I said. "It must be relieving for him to talk to someone he doesn't have to lie to."

Sunday… that was the only day of the week that I was ever close to happy, because no lessons or meetings were scheduled. I was free to do whatever I wished.

"You're sympathising with the enemy." Draco gave me an uneasy look.

"I'm just trying to look at the situation objectively." A sigh escaped my lips, and I felt the corners of my mouth turn to something like a sneer. "He throws curses at me, and I'm supposed to dodge and defend. The purpose is to ensure that if I'm ever in danger, I won't die without his permission. That's twice a week, Tuesdays and Saturdays. The rest of the time, I do whatever he says. I can't tell you any more."

I moved over to the bed—it didn't matter which—and fell back across the quilt. It was patterned with seven-pointed stars.

Merlin, I felt so trapped. I wanted to tell him everything, but I knew what would happen if I did—Voldemort would read my mind, find out, and punish Draco for asking, because he knew that I was numb to his abuse as long as I was the only one who suffered.

A faint _pop_ sounded suddenly, and the morning edition of the Daily Prophet appeared on the round table; I barely blinked. Our mail always came late, because it was thoroughly searched, and who-or-whatever did the searching (it was probably house-elves, but I did not want to jump to conclusions) seemed to have other priorities.

"Anything new?" I said.

"Yes," answered Draco. "You might want to take a look."

The headline implanted itself in my mind even before he handed me the paper: '_AUGUSTUS ROOKWOOD CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER_.'

Rookwood. Why _him_? He was a Death Eater. A murderer. A sociopath. And now he was running a school filled with children. How was I supposed to feel? Angry? Relieved that it was not someone _worse_? How _did_ I feel?

I didn't even know. That was starting to become a habit. On impulse, I folded the paper and strode down the stairs, not stopping until I reached the drawing room, where it looked like our afternoon tea ritual had caught on; Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were doing the same, sitting across from each other on Victorianesque armchairs.

Lucius froze mid-sip, and we made eye contact just long enough for him to recognise me as (the boy who was not) his son. He greeted me with a nod and resumed his business.

I stepped forward and said with cold calm, "Where is the Dark Lord?"

A teacup rattled against its saucer; Narcissa's hands were shaking. Lucius looked up at me once more and stated the obvious, "Not here."

There was a tingle in my forearm as I thought about calling him, and somehow I knew that he was not anywhere in the manor. But I did not touch the Dark Mark—this was not an urgent matter.

"When he gets back, tell him I wish to speak with him about _this_." I threw the newspaper down on the tea table. "That's an order." Of course, I had no authority to give orders, but I wasn't sure if Lucius was aware of that. He would do it anyway, because I was (not) his son.

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

There were pages filled with notes about Hogwarts. Everything that Astoria knew, and everything new that she discovered. The conversations we sometimes had at night were always erased immediately afterword.

I turned to a new page, and traced the words, _The enemy will visit Hogwarts on 30 March after curfew. Watch the map and tell me where he goes. He will likely appear as 'Tom Riddle.'_


	4. Hogwarts

"_The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution._"  
>―<em>J.K. Rowling, <em>Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

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**CHAPTER FOUR**

**HOGWARTS**

A sudden coldness engulfed me the instant my feet touched the ground and Voldemort relinquished his grip on my arm. Two dementors, one on each side, stood watchful, their skeletal hands resembling claws. Iron bars towered before me, spelled to keep people not only out, but _in_.

I took a step back, knowing I had no defence against the creatures. A man approached from beyond the gates and tapped the lock with his wand; they swung open with an eerie creak. The man gave a bow. Voldemort glided forward. Without hesitation, I followed.

Clouds concealed the sky, and even through my cloak the wind was like ice. The castle ahead looked like a fortress. Inside the doors, though the air was warm, the feeling was no different. The empty hallways lined with closed doors and silent portraits gave the impression of walking through a prison.

A sudden ringing filled my ears and my footsteps ceased to echo; I realised that Voldemort had cast a spell to keep me from hearing the Headmaster's password. My head swayed from the pressure, while he watched me with his cold gaze. A spiral staircase started to rise behind the stone gargoyle. The ringing stopped.

"I shall return in one hour," Voldemort said. "Do not wander."

He turned away, and I followed Rookwood up to a circular room.

There was something about spending time around killers, drinking tea with them and talking casually. It was easy to forget how dangerous they were.

"What's your deal?" I blurted out. "Why did you take this job?"

Rookwood took a slow sip, deliberately delaying his response. Then he said, "Why not? Someone had to." His face was battle-worn and he had a raspy voice. Now that I thought about it, he looked like Palpatine from Star Wars.

A few of the portraits behind the desk watched with curious looks. The rest appeared to be sleeping. My gaze hinged for a second on a shiny sword mounted on the wall.

"I don't trust you," I said, meeting his olive eyes.

"I could say the same," said Rookwood, "but that would get us nowhere. I thought you had something to discuss."

I reminded myself that anything I said to him would almost certainly later be repeated to Voldemort, and then replied, "Severus expected me to take his place. I want to make sure you're not going to hurt any children."

A flicker of movement caught my eye; it seemed to have come from Dumbledore's portrait, but when I glanced over, he appeared once again to be asleep.

"Why would I do that?" Rookwood said in a tone that might have sounded pleasant from someone who was not a murderer. His eyes glinted. "Murder is a messy business. Even with a method as clean as the Killing Curse, you still have a body to deal with, and then there are usually family members who might try to retaliate… It is not something I enjoy doing. I assure you, the students are quite safe."

"What about the Carrows? You can't let them run unchecked."

He smiled. There was danger in his eyes, but somehow I got the impression that he agreed with me. "If they want to keep their jobs, they will abide by my orders, and they have never been given express permission to engage in needless torture. Is that all?"

I poured myself more tea, indicating that it was _not_ all. "We have an hour; I intend to use all of it. It's not often that I get to spend time away from Headquarters."

"He keeps you busy."

I shrugged. "More like _confined_. I'm not allowed to go anywhere without his permission." Hot liquid tickled my tongue. My eyelids flickered. "Is it really as hopeless as I think? Am I really stuck here forever?"

"What do you mean?" asked Rookwood.

"He broke my Time-Turner. Did he not bother to tell you?"

"Time-Turners do not generally appear out of nowhere. Someone has to make them."

"But…" I paused, wondering if he might have been subtly revealing something important. "But even if I could make another one, and make it go forward, how can I be sure that it'll take me back to _my_ time, and not somewhere entirely different?"

"How can you be sure that your time still exists—or that it ever existed outside your mind? Remember that the Alternate Universes Theory is _still_ only a theory, despite what you think you've proven."

This time, I definitely saw Dumbledore blink.

"That doesn't make sense. If my time never existed, how am I alive?"

"What is _time_, exactly? Someone had to know in order to create a device that can manipulate it."

I swallowed, and for a moment I was no longer wondering about his motives, and not at all concerned about what he might tell Lord Voldemort. There was a whisper, "I have absolutely no idea."

Somehow, admitting that I still had so much left to learn brought me relief. It was as good as an affirmation that my life was still worth something.

"What is it?" I then said. "Do _you_ know?"

Rookwood sipped his tea, but it didn't look like an intentional delay. He seemed to be thinking. "You still want to be an Unspeakable? You would pass up the opportunity to rule?"

_Voldemort would never let me rule_, I thought. _He's planning to kill me the moment he doesn't need me anymore._ "Yes," I said, my voice firm.

"Why?"

A deliberate smirk played across my face. "Why do you find that surprising? I'm a Ravenclaw."

"Is that so? You said before that you were in Slytherin."

"The hat put me in Slytherin because I was so determined to follow family tradition that I spent precisely five minutes and seventeen seconds arguing with it."

I checked my watch; my breathing quickened. "I want to know everything. And there's nothing I hate more than lies. That's my problem with _Lord Voldemort's_ regime." Rookwood flinched, but I did not pause. "It's absurd. Muggle-borns are stealing magic? What kind of _idiot_ would believe _that_? And don't get me started on all the bullshit Alecto's been teaching. I can't stand it."

My watch ticked. Rookwood nodded, and then said with perfect calm, "How do you know what Alecto has been teaching?"

_Astoria._ My heart pounded, threatening to escape my chest. This was definitely going to get back to Voldemort. What would he think? What would he _do_? I swallowed, and forced my brain to think up an excuse, fast.

The answer came with a smirk. "I ask questions."

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

"Has the situation been resolved to your satisfaction?" Voldemort said.

"It has, my Lord."

The gates opened, and I felt his long fingers close around my arm just as a wave of hopelessness struck me. In a second it was gone, and then we stood before a different pair of iron bars; yet another prison masquerading as something else. He pushed me through before I could regain my balance, and I was forced to walk ahead of him up to the front door.

I stopped just short of the stairs, my hand gripping the banister, and blinked several times. He was watching me.

"Scorpius," Voldemort said suddenly, sounding out the final 'S' like a hiss. Only my head moved to look at him. "How have you been feeling lately?"

_What? Did he just ask me—_

"Tell me. I will not punish you."

My lips parted. There was a short pause, then I started to analyse everything I had felt over the past week or so, "Annoyed with your Death Eaters' stupid decisions. Frustrated with your distrust. Angry—just… in general. Bloody exhausted."

"I see." His tone was clinical, like that a Healer would use. Somehow, it was frightening. "If you need _anything_, you only need to tell me."

It was a lie. He could not possibly—he didn't even know _how_ to care. He only wanted me alive and in good health so that I could think properly, because I was useless otherwise.

A sudden emptiness stirred somewhere inside of me, and I heard myself say, "Whatever you're trying to do to me, you won't succeed. The _only_ thing I want is truth, and you, _my Lord_, are nothing but a liar."

The second the words were out of mouth, his hand that had not quite been far enough away pulled me up by the throat, his white fingers squeezing, and he spoke in a quiet, dangerous hiss, "_What did you say_?"

A moment passed; he squeezed tighter.

"—Ca—can't—"

"Breathe?" With a merciless laugh, Voldemort dropped me onto the floor, and for a moment I sat there, gasping, and my hand grasped the handle of my wand. I backed against the wall, staring him down.

"Don't try it, Scorpius," he said, not a hint of concern in his voice. "Remember the warning I gave you last time? You don't want that, do you?" He almost sounded like he was teasing me.

Last time. The time I had threatened to slit my own throat with a _Sectumsempra_. He had called me a worthless coward, and after I had dropped my wand, he had warned me that if it ever happened again, the word 'privacy' would no longer have any meaning for me. So much for gaining leverage via suicide threats.

I rose, and stowed my wand away. "I'm going to sleep. I will not be late for tomorrow's lesson." Tomorrow was Tuesday. Combat training. Not going to be fun.

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

The investigation had failed. Astoria's report was concise, yet thorough, and it revealed nothing that I had not witnessed myself. '_9:46 p.m. Tom Riddle enters through the front gate, accompanied by Scorpius Malfoy, led by Augustus Rookwood. 9:51 p.m. They enter the castle, front doors._' It continued, describing the path up to the Headmaster's office at roughly two-minute intervals.

Then, '_10:02 p.m. AR enters Headmaster's office, followed by SM. TR turns around._' He left. He returned an hour later. There was nothing suspicious at all.

Did this mean that there was no Horcrux hidden at Hogwarts? But if there _was_… would he really see the need to check on it? He had always been arrogant…

I closed the book and stuffed it back inside my mokeskin pouch. For a moment I sat there, thinking, and slowly, it became more and more obvious that I felt _good_, and maybe that was why Voldemort had indulged my request to speak to Rookwood. I _liked_ talking to him. He was probably the only person in the world who I considered to be my intellectual equal, _and_ who I was not afraid of, besides Snape, but Snape was…

My head fell back against the pillow, and the thought occurred to me that aside from an enjoyable conversation over tea with a _psychopathic murderer_, I had been inside Hogwarts—the most probable hiding place for Ravenclaw's diadem—and accomplished absolutely nothing. And then I associated the thought with the known hiding place of Hufflepuff's cup—after all, _anyone_ could enter Gringotts and not come within an inch of touching the Horcrux.

My head turned, and I felt… something hard… underneath my pillow? I reached back and pulled it out. A wooden box, small and thin, almost like for holding jewellery. I cast _Lumos_, and my fingers lifted the lid.

A silver chain, with a tiny hourglass on the end. I blinked, expecting it to disappear. I blinked again, expecting to wake up from a dream. Then I saw a folded scrap of parchment tucked beneath the chain.

_You have paid the price to change your family's history, but the price of victory is greater still. Your own freedom will not be enough. Are you prepared to sacrifice everything?_

The words were printed; there was no particular handwriting, and the note gave no signature.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I am trying to keep consistent weekly updates, but I have been busy with an original project that (naturally) takes priority, so next chapter (_very_ tentatively titled 'Manufactured Luck') should be done by 12 April, though I make no promises.

Please review. Criticism is appreciated (seriously, I have never felt more insecure about a story in my life, someone please tell me what's not working so I can hurriedly rush to fix it). If I don't reply, it's because I'm super busy, but I do try really hard to write better.


	5. Obvious Answers

**A/N:** This story is NOT being abandoned. It is, however, being cut drastically short. I'm posting what I have written of Chapter 5, which was never finished, and then I'm going to tell you how it all ends.

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><p>"<em>There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.<em>"

―_J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Hobbit

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**OBVIOUS ANSWERS**

Every work of fiction I had read in my eighteen years of life had taught me at least two things: the obvious answer is usually the correct one, and it is the journey, much more than the destination, that matters. You didn't have to read a word of _The Hunger Games_ to know that Katniss would win—the only question was _how_, and _what about Peeta?_

It _should_ have been obvious who had left the note, but in this case the obvious answer felt like nothing more than wishful thinking. Snape. He knew me better than anyone. He had motive—he wanted Voldemort dead, and he trusted me not to give up. But _he_ was dead, wasn't he? There had certainly been a dead body that looked like him, and Voldemort thought it was him.

Wishful thinking. I _wanted_ to believe that it was him, but there was simply _no way_ that a man who everyone believed to be dead was lurking around Malfoy Manor—the second most secure place in magical Britain—without detection. Even Severus Snape was not _that_ good.

Who else could it have been? Rookwood had more opportunity than almost anyone, but his motive was shaky, unless he thought that I could win, and it would be in his best interest to start playing both sides… Voldemort? He might have done it just to mess with me, or test my loyalty, or any insane reason. Lucius Malfoy? Draco? No, that was ridiculous. Draco was about as likely as Alecto Carrow.

There _was_ no obvious answer, but… suddenly, I felt stupid. Whoever had written the note was an ally. An ally who could acquire a Time-Turner, _and_ sneak around Malfoy Manor undetected. There was no doubt that the note-writer was aware that Voldemort could read my mind, and for that reason I was _not supposed to know_ who it was.

I stared up at the ceiling, no longer feeling sleepy. The silver Time-Turner and the note were safely tucked away. I recognised the markings; it was a restricted Time-Turner that had probably once belonged to the Ministry, like the one I had used in school. It was not a ticket home.

My mind cleared, and my thoughts got to work, weaving a web of innocence and loyalty. _Scorpius Malfoy is a _good_ Death Eater. He is _not_ trying to kill the Dark Lord. He does not have a Time-Turner._

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

"Impossible," Draco said. "No one was in our room last night."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"I went to bed not long after you left. I locked the door." (Our locking spells were not something a simple _Alohomora_ could undo, of course, and there were only two keys). "There's no way anyone could have got in."

The house-elves had made _pancakes_—maple syrup and all, for breakfast. Definitely my favourite meal. We were eating in our room—that was unusual, but not so unusual that it would draw suspicion.

"Unless they were _already_ in," I said. "If the note-writer could acquire a Time-Turner, then an Invisibility Cloak is well within the realm of possibility."

_Or_ maybe it was a gift from the author, but that would be along the lines of Deus Ex Machina, which is against the rules of good writi—why was Draco looking at me like that?

"Do you realise how disturbing this is considering the possibilities are limited to _Death Eaters_? It could easily be a plot to get you killed or exposed as a traitor without the instigator being blamed."

I had not thought of that. _Why_ had I not thought of that?

Because it _felt_ friendly. But no fair judgement could be made based on intuition alone.

"There's no evidence that this person is our enemy," I said. "So it's no use worrying about it."

"You're not going to _use_ the thing, are you?" asked Draco.

We made eye contact. I almost didn't answer—I only did because he would have guessed my response anyway: "Of course I'm going to use it."

There was an awkward pause. I continued eating breakfast.

"You don't know who it's from," said Draco. "It could be cursed or something. And if you get caught—"

"It's not cursed."

"How do you know?"

I didn't. "I checked it." I really didn't. "Honestly, you worry too much."

"I worry exactly the right amount."

"Then maybe I should hand it over to the Dark Lord before training tonight, and tell him the truth."

Draco looked at me like I'd just suggested we go on holiday at Disney World. "Are you _insane_?" he spat. "You can't give it to him!"

"Why not? He'll know I'm telling the truth, so there's no way he could blame me. I didn't _ask_ for it. And if you don't think I should use it, then it wouldn't be a good idea to keep it either."

I paused to take a drink, and glance at the sun. "That's probably why whoever sent it didn't leave a signature. The note-writer isn't sure if he can trust me."

We finished breakfast in silence. Then Draco stood and opened the nearest window. The wind was cold; spring had barely begun, but I was numb to it.

"So, what are you going to do?" he said quietly.

"Hmm…" I had not, at first, actually considered betraying the note-writer to Voldemort, but after some thought, the idea did have merit. It would certainly improve my standing, at least, and in the off chance that the note was from him, I knew that would have been the way to pass the test.

But it was so _tempting_…

I could hear the sound of a hummingbird.

It _felt_ friendly.

"I'm going to use it. I think it will help me on my quest."

* * *

><p>"<em>Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.<em>"

―_Mark Twain_

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

**THE ENDING**

Truth be told, _A Matter of Time_ never needed a sequel. From the moment Scorpius takes the Dark Mark, it is obvious where he's going. Even if he could return to his own time, he could never face his family with that thing on his arm.

He admits defeat twice in Chapter 1, and whether he realises it or not, he has already developed real loyalty toward Voldemort and actively tries to be a valuable Death Eater. Voldemort, however, _does_ notice this, but his arrogance will again be his downfall because Scorpius will never be 100% loyal. He won't forget that Voldemort is a danger to everyone—not just muggles and muggleborns—and Scorpius' ultimate desire to protect the people he cares about will never change.

His good heart keeps him from becoming totally corrupted by the dark side, but in the end, he does defeat Voldemort only to replace him (as Darth Vader would have eventually done to Sidious if Luke had never intervened).

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

Scorpius may or may not kill Harry Potter. It could go only one of two ways:

Either (1) Scorpius somehow manages to destroy all the Horcruxes (Harrycrux included) before the final confrontation; Voldemort is killed for good.

Or (2—the more likely scenario) Voldemort realises that Scorpius is a threat and decides to dispose of him before he gets a chance to take out Harry; Voldemort is defeated with at least one Horcrux remaining, leaving his soul tied to Earth (the Death Eaters happily serve their new, much kinder Dark Lord, so he's not likely to come back anytime soon, and Scorpius will not hurt Harry until that time comes).

¸.·ˆ¯)(¯ˆ·.¸

One thing Scorpius is dead wrong about: Voldemort is being entirely honest about his plans, although he hasn't shared the full details yet. He's training Scorpius to be his chief military tactician, and would definitely prefer to keep him alive.

The Time-Turner is a gift from the one and only Severus Snape. Yes, he's that good. No way in hell three measly Death Eaters (or was it four? can't remember/not re-reading) could have killed him. The memories were fake; the body was a polyjuiced muggle. As for how he's getting around Malfoy Manor undetected… same way Pettigrew got around Hogwarts in _Prisoner of Azkaban_, I'll let you figure it out.

Augustus Rookwood is loyal to… himself. I can't remember much about my portrayal of him other than that, so I won't go into details, but currently he's not playing both sides. He's definitely working for Voldemort and will continue doing so until the end, although he'll also continue giving Scorpius harmless bits of advice. He'll turn his coat along with everyone else once Voldemort is out of the picture.

If you've been wondering what Draco's been sketching in the afternoon tea scenes… Scorpius gets a Swedish Shortsnout tattooed on his chest. That was supposed to be revealed in Chapter 5, I think.

That's it. THE END. I'm leaving it here and not writing any more.

Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed or just enjoyed this story.

* * *

><p>If you care for an explanation andor are interested in my future writing, keep reading…

I reiterate, _A Matter of Time_ never needed a sequel. I remember starting this because I liked my version of Scorpius and wanted to give him a chance to pick up the pieces and redeem himself, but it's just not going to happen. The theme of this series is, after all, 'a matter of time' (i.e. sometimes all you can do is delay the inevitable).

I'm pretty much done with fan fiction in general, I think. Pretty much, but not entirely. I'm still fascinated by the endless possibilities in the _Harry Potter_ universe, but J. K. Rowling's characters just don't hold my interest anymore. I love them, but they've been written to death and back already. I started writing my own original novel in December 2011 and now I vastly prefer writing about my own characters.

I'm very glad I finished the first story. _I can't believe_ I finished it. Even though I know I could re-write the entire thing and make it so much better, I have to stop myself because I really don't have the time, and I finished it. It taught me how to write, and I'm glad for that.

On future writings:

I'm very nearly done my first original novel (the first/second drafts—I edit as I write). It should have been done already, but I'm way behind schedule (blame _Fire Emblem: Awakening_). This book is in the same genre as _Harry Potter_ (young adult fantasy with magic and spells), but much more heavily inspired by _Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality_, although probably more realistic.

SO, **I will be looking for beta readers in the next 1 to 3 months or sooner.** If you are even slightly interested, please, please, please message me, and I will send you the working title/summary and further details (no commitment necessary).

I may be currently writing a new story set in the _Harry Potter_ universe. It will NOT be posted on this profile, because I don't want my early crappy writings tied to my new serious writing. I will not publish this at all until it's absolutely ready, and I have no idea how long that will take, but... If you love the HP world and are interested in a new and different story, message me and I will provide you with the summary and a link to my new profile, so you can be notified once the story is available.


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